


The Hammer And The Anvil

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 08:01:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18656299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: Frodo's thoughts as he and his companions flee from Moria.





	The Hammer And The Anvil

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own Frodo or any of his companions. I don’t own Middle earth either. They all belong to JRR Tolkien and I’m only reading between his lines.
> 
> Some of the external dialogue has been lifted directly from his work and there’s a sprinkling of movie stuff too.

At any other time Frodo would have protested the indignity of having to be carried by one of the big folk but his side hurt so much now that the no longer cared. He only felt relief at even so small a respite from the jolting every time he took a step, and the effort of trying to gain enough breath around the pain in his chest. Even leaning against Aragorn’s chest, head on the big man’s shoulder was not a total easement of the pain; however he closed his eyes, willing his body to relax.

Heat and the stench of sulphur . . . Gandalf’s face, weary and resigned . . . “Fly, you fools”.

Frodo’s eyes flew open. No. He could not think on that . . . could not see the person who had been in his life for so many years fall to his death . . . fall to his death to save Frodo. How many more of the Fellowship would make that sacrifice for him?

As he was lost in thought they came down into a small dell. A tiny waterfall plunged down its side over green clad stones and stunted fir trees clothed its steep banks. At the bottom was a level space and here it was that they made temporary camp. Frodo and Sam were lowered onto the thin winter grass and, without instruction, their companions went about their chosen tasks. 

As Aragorn inspected the deep cut on Sam’s brow Frodo watched his friends. Usually, when they stopped, there would be light hearted conversation. Merry and Pippin were helping Gimli kindle a small fire to heat water. The air should be full of Pip’s questions, Merry’s mostly patient answers and Gimli’s good natured rumblings about never getting the job done at this rate.

Now there was only silence as Pippin paused to run his sleeve over eyes still red from crying, leaving clean patches in the grime on his cheeks. Merry was silent but, as he stepped around his younger cousin to add more kindling, he ran a comforting hand across the slumped shoulders. Merry had stopped crying some time ago but his face was now a stone mask and his back as straight as a broomstick. Living in the overcrowded Brandy Hall, the heir to the Master of Buckland had learned to hide his feelings from curious glances. But Frodo knew the stance of old.

Still relatively close to the home of his ancestors, Gimli should be regaling them with expansive tales of his people’s achievements. Instead, he went about his task, seemingly all too aware of his ancestor’s last terrible deed and its most recent consequences. He had been dandled upon the knees of Balin and Ori as a youngster and no doubt felt their loss as keenly as Gandalf’s.

Boromir was sorting quietly through their gear, collecting a meagre meal. Frodo doubted that any of them felt like eating, but they would, for Gandalf’s sake. The kindly old man had wanted them to go on . . . had given his life to ensure it. Frodo dragged himself back form darkness and sulphur once more.

For a moment he could not find Legolas. Then he spotted a flash of light as a stray sunbeam caught golden hair. The elf had taken up his customary duty of watch-guard in a nearby tree. As always an air of stillness surrounded the elven warrior. He seemed to draw calm and peace to him, even in battle. There was nothing unconsidered in his motions. Now, he sat as still as the tree that supported him, but for one hand that brushed the bole, as though drawing comfort from the tree’s stoic existence in this hard land. Frodo had not seen him shed any tears since Moria but now the light showed glistening tracks down his perfectly planed cheeks.

From a distance, Frodo was aware of Aragorn’s voice. Although he could not tear his gaze from Legolas’ still face, those almost sapphire eyes staring off into . . . what?

“This is not too bad, Sam. The cut is not poisoned as the wounds of orc-blades too often are. It should heal well. Bathe it when Gimli has heated water.” 

He reached into his pack, withdrawing a small pouch and pulling from it some withered leaves. “They are dry, and some of their virtue has gone, but I have still some of the leaves of athelas that I gathered near Weathertop. Crush one in the water, and wash the wound clean, and then I will bind it.”

Frodo was drawn back from another dark memory when he found himself addressed directly. “Now it is your turn, Frodo!”

Aragorn’s fingers stripped off Frodo’s jacket and were beginning to slide off his braces before small hands clutched at his, staying the man’s work. It felt almost unseemly to let go of his pain so quickly.

“I’m all right. All I need is some food and a little rest.”

Too familiar with the tight expressions of those in pain, Aragorn was not about to be put off. “No! We must have a look and see what the hammer and the anvil have done to you. I still marvel that you are alive at all.”

Frodo surrendered, allowing his carer to unfasten his shirt. As the sunlight scattered in a thousand points of light from the gem studied mail of Bilbo’s gift, Aragorn’s first reaction was to gasp and then to laugh softly. It sounded so incongruous in the midst of their pain that the others turned to look. As Aragorn pealed the shirt gently from Frodo’s body and held it up in the sunlight, the shaken rings were like the tinkle of rain in a clear pool.

“Look, my friends! Here’s a pretty hobbit-skin to wrap an elven princeling in! If it were known that hobbits had such hides, all the hunters of Middle-earth would be riding to the Shire.”

“And all the arrows of all the hunters in the world would be in vain,” said Gimli, gazing at the mail in wonder. “It is a mithril coat. Mithril! I have never seen or heard tell of one so fair. Is this the coat that Gandalf spoke of? Then he undervalued it. But it was well given!”

Even as he uttered his final words a heavy silence seemed to drop upon them once more. In his mind Frodo heard the kindly chuckle of the old wizard . . . but it was followed too closely by a fading cry as his body spun down and away from Frodo’s inward gaze.

Merry cleared his throat and turned from where he watched a pot of water on the fire, his voice sounding too bright and forced. “I have often wondered what you and Bilbo were doing, so close in his little room. Bless the old hobbit! I love him more than ever. I hope we get a chance of telling him about it!”

Frodo averted his eyes from his cousin’s face as Boromir handed him a strip of dried meat. He accepted it automatically then promptly stuffed it in his breeches pocket. Eating was no longer important. 

Would any of them get the chance to speak to dear Bilbo again? With one death before they had been no more than a few days on their journey Frodo began to acknowledge that he may be leading them all to violent endings. Was his own death inevitable too? It looked to be the more likely outcome of their quest.

But perhaps he could prevent anyone else from ending with him. Frodo looked about, trying to establish just where he was in relation to Mordor. There had been many maps in Rivendell and he had made a point of studying them but it was not as easy as he had imagined; translating lines into landscape. By his reckoning he needed to travel south and a little east. He should keep the forest to his left to start with and then there was another that he needed to keep on his right. Then . . .

“Oh don’t be so silly Frodo Baggins. You’ll never make it on your own and you know it,” his mind supplied, mockingly. He had not the vaguest idea where to go after the woods. He knew there were lots of rivers and that he had to avoid Minas Tirith. Then he had to find the gates to the Black Lands and work out how to get through them unnoticed. He dropped his head, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes in an effort to stop the tears that threatened again. He had thought he had no tears left and yet here they were.

Pippin draped a blanket around Frodo’s shoulders and settled down at his side. “We all miss him terribly.” Fool, Gandalf had called the lad. Not nearly as foolish as Frodo felt at present.

He used a corner of the blanket to dry his face and tried to give Pippin a watery smile. “Yes. He seemed invincible. But he wasn’t. None of us is.” He nodded to the tree. “Even elves can die.”

Aragorn came then, bearing Sam’s precious pan, filled with the warm water infused with Athelas. It was the matter of only a few minutes to remove the supple leather jerkin and bathe Frodo’s chest, padding the areas where mail had been pressed into flesh. The reduction in physical pain provided only a little relief and Frodo wished that his mind could be soothed as easily. Pippin helped him back into his clothes, including the mithril shirt, at Aragorn’s insistance.

Merry helped Sam, who seemed to be keeping one eye on his master throughout Aragorn’s ministrations. Frodo could not meet his gaze. Sam should be planting the first of the flowers in the summer borders of Bag End’s gardens about now. Not following his master into certain death. And Merry and Pippin should be sneaking food from under the old cook’s noses at Brandy Hall or Great Smials.

Frodo felt selfish for allowing them all to come with him. For that matter, why did he think he could do this thing anyway? Surely Aragorn or Boromir or even Legolas would be better suited to the task? He should just hand over the Ring to one of them and lead his friends back to the Shire.

But Elrond had said that now was the time of the Shire folk and Gandalf had agreed. But Elrond was an elf. What of the elves? Boromir was wary of them and now he could see why. Elves had been party to the creation of the rings of power but it seemed they considered themselves too wise to deal with the destruction of the greatest of them. 

Enter the foolish Frodo Baggins. He was simply a pawn to be pushed about the board at elven whim. Now where had that thought come from? Bilbo would have called it uncharitable and perhaps he was right. Although even Bilbo had hinted that he had similar reservations about Gandalf at times during his own adventure. 

Poor Gandalf. Frodo’s mind seemed to wind down, like one of the dwarves clockwork toys, every time he came back to Gandalf. He just wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear. This was too great a matter for a simple hobbit like Frodo Baggins. 

“I Frodo, son of Drogo, will take it.” That’s what he’d said. What had he been thinking? Gandalf was supposed to go with him into Mordor and now he was gone. Gimli had not agreed to go any further than Moria and they had just left there. Boromir and Aragorn were bound for some great city called Minas Tirith. As for Legolas . . . who knew where he was bound? One did not ask an elf such questions . . . even assuming he would give you a straight answer. If he was returning to Mirkwood he would be leaving their company soon, for the southern borders of his father’s realm were to their left even now.

Who would be left to guide four insignificant little hobbits once the others had departed on their own journeys?

Behind him there was a hissing as Merry tipped the last of the water onto the fire and everyone began packing away their gear. Aragorn seemed to have appointed himself their leader, if only temporarily. “Come gentlemen. We have far to travel and we must do so swiftly if we are to reach the safety of the eaves of Lothlorien before dark.”

Frodo watched Boromir scowl. “Safety, he says. Rather from one peril to another,” the man muttered. Boromir seemed to scowl a lot nowadays and Frodo often felt the man’s eyes upon him. Perhaps he was assessing how easy it would be to divest Frodo of the Ring. Very easy, Frodo thought ruefully. Oh, he could resist, but he would be no match for such a warrior if it came to a fight.

Well. It seemed he was not able to strike out for Mordor alone. And yet he could not stay within the company. What was it that Sam had said an age ago? “A nice pickle we have landed ourselves in, Mr Frodo.”

Frodo certainly felt as though he had been dowsed in vinegar and locked in a jar at present. He bent carefully to lift his pack but Sam beat him to it. “Let me carry this for a while, Mr Frodo. My head’s feeling a lot better now and you’re still bruised.”

“No, Sam,” Frodo replied firmly as he tugged the strap from Sam’s grasp. “I carry my own weight on this journey.”

Suddenly, long calloused fingers loosened his and he looked up into Legolas’ unfathomable gaze. “I shall carry it for you,” he announced quietly. “You carry enough.”

Frodo found that he could not deny those words. He carried the possibility of the death of his companions. He carried responsibility for the death of Gandalf. His hand moved of its own volition to his chest. And he carried the One. Could he carry all that to the end . . . whatever that end would be?

END


End file.
